


Bury Me til I Confess

by brinnanza



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: First Time, Gratuitous Tennis Metaphors, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:46:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7422238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s just tipsy enough that it seems like a good idea to be standing outside of Garak’s quarters in the middle of the night, leaning on the buzzer and seriously considering using his medical override. (It would be tremendously unethical, obviously, and would probably get him booted from Starfleet besides, but considering where he is and when, it’s safe to say that his judgment isn’t quite sound.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bury Me til I Confess

**Author's Note:**

> This was somewhat inspired by "Push" from [this list](http://brinnanza.tumblr.com/post/144358257866/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-prompt) (I am, of course, incapable of writing a drabble, so). 
> 
> Don't think too hard about when it takes place cause uh I didn't. The title is from Fall Out Boy's "Uma Thurman". Thanks to Jazzy and Ashley for giving this a look over. Bits and pieces of Cardassian reproductive biology [borrowed from tinsnip](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479).

Julian wouldn’t say he’s _drunk_ , exactly. Not that he hadn’t given it the old college try - between the scotch he’d had with Miles, the beers he’d chased the scotch with, and the potent, fruity liqueur Quark had convinced him to sample, the only thing keeping him upright and not in a puddle on the floor is the alcohol tolerance afforded by his genetic enhancements.

So he’s not drunk. More like… pleasantly buzzed. As a medical professional, he’s qualified to make the distinction. He’s just tipsy enough that it seems like a good idea to be standing outside of Garak’s quarters in the middle of the night, leaning on the buzzer and seriously considering using his medical override. (It would be tremendously unethical, obviously, and would probably get him booted from Starfleet besides, but considering where he is and when, it’s safe to say that his judgment isn’t quite sound.)

He’s spared the humiliation of having to depart Deep Space Nine in disgrace when the door finally slides open to reveal the room’s occupant, wearing a soft-looking tunic and trousers and glaring at him.

“Doctor,” Garak says. His voice is all irritation, none of it fond. “I assume you have a very good reason for waking me at this hour?”

And he does. He absolutely does. Definitely worth getting out of bed for. He tells Garak so and then pushes past him into the room. As Garak is perfectly capable of refusing him entry if he wants, Julian is forced to conclude that he _does_ , in fact, want him here, or at least that his presence is inoffensive enough not to eject immediately. It’s all very logical, really.

He looks around Garak’s sitting room while Garak watches with rapidly evaporating patience. If Garak hadn’t just answered the door in his pajamas, Julian might suspect these quarters to be uninhabited. There is certainly nothing immediately obvious to indicate a sentient being lives here: No stray padds, no clothes draped over a chair. Just the station-standard furniture in the station-standard arrangement.

“Doctor Bashir,” says Garak, making a little rolling ‘get on with it’ gesture with one hand. “I would very much like to return to bed sometime this evening, so if you would kindly say whatever it is you came here to say.”

Which is, frankly, a little unfair. Julian hadn’t objected when Garak had shown up at the end of Julian’s bed demanding to go to Bajor in the middle of the night mere weeks after they’d met. No, Julian had procured the necessary runabout and they’d had themselves a right little adventure. He doesn’t think it’s too much to ask that Garak accept his presence here now, so many more years into their friendship, with roughly the same degree of enthusiasm. 

Unfortunately, Garak doesn’t seem to agree. “Doctor, if I have to ask again--”

Julian barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. He strongly suspects Garak’s irritation is an affectation for maximum drama -- he does love a good show. “Oh, are you feeling a little impatient?”

“My patience is certainly being tried, yes.”

Julian steps in front of him, closing the distance between them to mere inches as befits their more impassioned discussions. “I know a few things about impatience myself.”

Garak raises an eye ridge. “Do you,” he says flatly.

“I do.” Julian leans in a little closer. “You see, I’ve been very patient. For years even.”

“You don’t say.” It seems Julian is approaching Garak’s _last nerve_ \-- how appropriate, considering it’s Julian’s sorely trodden on last nerve that causes him to be in Garak’s quarters at this hour. “Will you be arriving at a _point_ sometime soon?”

Oh yes. In truth, Julian is halfway there already, anticipation buzzing hot under his skin. He can’t help shifting his hips just a little, tilting his chin down so he can look at Garak through his lashes.

“Come now, Garak,” Julian purrs. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Garak just stares at him, a faintly incredulous look on his face. At this point, he’s being deliberately obtuse -- not that Julian should be surprised. “Deliberately obtuse” is practically Garak’s middle name. (It could be, for all Julian knows. The man had to almost die before Julian even learned his _first name_ , and he’d had to learn it from the former head of the Obsidian Order of all people.)

Any trace of patience Julian might have come in with evaporates under the heady combination of alcohol and lust. There is only so much patiently waiting a man can be forced to endure, and Julian has been scrabbling at the end of his rope for years.

He fists a hand in Garak’s shirt and yanks him forward until he’s close enough that Julian can feel the warm puff of his breath. He opens his mouth to growl some appeal to end this ridiculous charade already, but then the room lurches suddenly, and Julian finds himself slammed against the nearest wall so hard it knocks the wind out of him.

Garak’s arm presses into Julian’s chest painfully, and there’s barely enough room to breathe, much less get away. Mental alarm bells are sounding in some distant part of his brain, telling him to be frightened, to fight back, but they’re barely audible over the electric crackle of desire that flares up hot in his stomach.

“My, my,” Garak says in a soft, dangerous voice. “You _are_ in trouble now.”

Julian swallows hard, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He tries to squirm, abruptly hard and desperate for some friction, but Garak holds him still.

“Tell me, Doctor, what did you expect would happen when you came here and threw yourself at me?” Garak’s voice is mocking, but the scales on his neck are flushed almost charcoal. “Did you imagine romance? That I’d fall to my knees for the chance to kiss your pretty mouth?”

Julian tries to answer, but coherent thought keeps slipping away, just out of reach. He gives a breathy moan instead.

“Or maybe this is what you imagined,” Garak continues, his tone musing. He slides a hand into Julian’s hair and gives it a sharp tug so Julian’s head tips back, exposing his throat.

Garak leans in until his lips just brush the shell of Julian’s ear. “Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?”

A shiver runs up Julian’s spine, and a high-pitched whine escapes his throat. His clothes are suddenly too hot and too tight, itching where heat prickles across his skin. Garak is so close already, but the remaining distance between them might as well be miles, and Garak won’t give him an inch.

“Well?” Garak prompts. Julian makes a wordless keening sound, and Garak clicks his tongue. “And you’re usually so articulate. A pity.” He releases his grip on Julian’s hair and takes a swift step backwards.

Julian almost slides to the floor, but he locks his knees at the last moment, throwing his hands out to brace himself against the wall. There’s a rush of white noise in his head from the sudden lack of contact, and he just blinks at Garak stupidly.

Garak purses his lips, wearing the same expression he uses when Julian has made a particularly shallow analysis of their latest Cardassian novel. “If there’s nothing else?” he says, dismissal written clearly on his features.

With an effort, Julian drags his brain back online and pushes off of the wall. Of course -- what fun is a tennis match against someone who returns every serve right into the net? This is no different from their verbal sparring matches: If Garak is going to be an immovable object, then Julian is damn well going to be an unstoppable force.

He narrows his eyes and stalks toward Garak. “Yes, as a matter of fact, there is something else.”

“Oh?”

Garak watches dispassionately as Julian steps right into his space. His arms are crossed and he makes no attempt to move away, looking as calm and collected as if he hadn’t just had Julian backed up against a wall and practically begging a moment ago.

“You are,” Julian says, struggling to keep his voice steady as irritation and desire churn in equal measure in his stomach, “the single most frustrating man I have ever met.” He straightens his back, taking advantage of his greater height to glare down at Garak.

Garak lifts his chin so he can look down his nose at Julian, but there is nevertheless a poorly-concealed look of pride in his eyes. “That’s quite an accomplishment considering the number of Cardassian Central Command members you’ve no doubt encountered over the years.”

“And yet, they all pale in comparison to you.”

Garak lets his lip curl up into a smirk. “How nice to see all of my hard work has paid off.”

Julian has no doubt they could stand here all night, lobbing the ball back and forth and alternating points with no clear winner, but he won’t be distracted by the same old feint. If Garak wants a game, then Julian will give him one, and it’s his turn to serve.

He leans in deliberately and is gratified to see Garak’s smug expression slip fractionally, curiosity and desire momentarily taking precedence. “Yes, it has,” Julian says, and kisses him.

Julian has had a number of first kisses over the years. They tend to be polite affairs, sweet and introductory. This kiss is nothing like that.Garak is pushy and insistent, immediately wresting control away from Julian and nipping at his bottom lip with sharp teeth until Julian opens up and lets him in. They fight each other all the way, push and pull and misdirect, every inch a battle. Julian is ever so slightly out of his depth in the most exhilarating way, like at any moment the floor could drop out from under him and send him plunging to the ground in a terrifying adrenaline rush of freefall.

Julian breaks off from Garak’s mouth long enough to bite at the scales on his neck. Garak inhales sharply, and while Julian is distracted being pleased with himself for getting a reaction, Garak presses his advantage, the sneaky bastard. He shoves Julian backwards until his legs hit the couch and then pushes him down onto it. At the last second, Julian manages to execute what is really quite a graceful maneuver considering the lack of blood in his brain, rolling to the side and twisting so Garak ends up on the couch underneath him.

He swings a leg over Garak’s lap to straddle him, toeing off his shoes as he goes, then leans forward, splaying his hands over Garak’s shoulders and bearing down. “Match point,” he says, giving Garak a triumphant grin.

“Are you sure about that?” Garak says in a low voice, a wicked glint in his eyes. “We’re far from the last set.”

Julian leans forward so his chest is flush against Garak’s and pulls Garak’s collar aside so he can nip at his shoulder ridges. His slips his other hand under the hem of Garak’s shirt so he can rake his nails down Garak’s side. “New point,” he murmurs against Garak’s skin. “Ad in.”

Garak grabs Julian’s wrists and holds them in one hand at the small of Julian’s back, pulling him backwards a little. His grip is deceptively light, ready to tighten at the slightest provocation. With his free hand, he reaches down between them to palm Julian’s cock through his trousers.

“What’s the score now, Doctor?” Garak says. He’s making a concerted effort to appear disinterested, but his breath is just a little too fast, and there’s a dark flush in his cheeks.

Julian can’t resist shifting forward to press against Garak’s hand. “Fuck me,” he pants before he can stop himself. “Please -- oh--”

“How crude,” Garak murmurs. He unfastens Julian’s trousers and slips his hand inside, ghosting briefly over Julian’s cock before sliding around to squeeze his ass. “Shall I have you right here on the couch?”

“Yes,” says Julian. Garak’s touch is teasing and too light, but when he presses back against it, Garak tightens his grip on Julian’s wrists and holds him just a little too far away. Julian rocks forward instead, desperate for some friction against his aching cock, and runs into a hard bump on the formerly smooth plane of Garak’s lap.

“Oh,” he breathes, intellectual curiosity momentarily cutting through the haze of need in his brain. He rises up on his knees and peers down at Garak’s lap. He’d never had the chance to study Cardassian reproductive biology first-hand before, but he’d managed to get ahold of a few medical reports over the years. Cardassian genitalia was internal most of the time, he knew, kept in a sheath until it was immediately necessary. But unless Garak had been planning to fuck him through both layers of trousers….

He takes advantage of the abrupt shift in mood to yank his wrists out of Garak’s hold and runs his fingers over the damp patch on Garak’s trousers. The look Garak turns on him is dark and predatory, and Julian half-expects to find himself shoved roughly to the ground. Garak just watches him with dark eyes, his thighs twitching, waiting.

Julian pushes Garak’s trousers out of the way so he can wrap his hand around Garak’s partially everted cock, and it obligingly slides out the rest of the way. “Oh my, you _are_ happy to see me.”

Instead of commenting on his atrocious line, Garak groans deeply, his eyelids fluttering closed. He’s panting a little, though obviously trying to control it, and his hands are balled into fists at his sides. “Now where would you have had cause to learn about -- _ah_ \-- such a private facet of Cardassian biology?” His hips jerk up into Julian’s hand.

“You mean you don’t already know?” Julian teases. He’s rocking his hips a little in time with his hand, and the soft rasp of his clothes against his cock is driving him almost as mad as Garak’s little gasps.

“I see you’re still convinced I’m a spy.”

Julian twists his hand at the bottom of his next stroke so his fingertips brush lightly against the fine scales around the base of Garak’s cock. “Better safe than sorry, hmm?”

“Very -- _oh_ \-- very good, Doctor.” Garak’s head tips back against the couch. “We’ll make -- ah -- we’ll make a cynic of you yet.”

Julian twists his hand again, pressing a bit more firmly with his fingertips this time, and Garak’s tenuous grip on restraint finally snaps. He pushes Julian backwards off of his lap, an iron grip on one arm so he doesn’t fall, and then shoves Julian’s trousers and briefs down his hips. He grasps Julian’s cock roughly with one hand and tugs at Julian’s hair with the other so he can sink his teeth into the skin where Julian’s shoulder meets his neck.

“Oh, god, yes,” Julian moans. There is nothing gentle about Garak’s touch, and the exquisite combination of pleasure and pain nearly sends him over the edge. He grips Garak’s shoulders like a lifeline, and every nerve in his body is coiled tight, years of tension burning white hot across his skin. “Don’t stop.”

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” Garak hisses against his ear. He nips at the lobe with sharp teeth. “You impertinent --” a bite to his shoulder “--impatient boy. It’s thoroughly inappropriate.”

That’s rich, coming from Garak. Julian has _been_ patient, so patient, for years and years, waiting for Garak’s idle flirtations to coalesce into something definitive. “Patience is overrated,” he says. He yanks Garak’s shirt off and tosses it somewhere behind him, then does the same with his own. He pushes Garak back down onto the couch, fingers digging into Garak’s shoulder ridges, and climbs on top of him.

Garak’s fingertips press bruises into Julian’s hips as he sinks down onto Garak’s cock, and Julian doesn’t bother to contain the loud cries tearing their way out of his throat. He’s dimly aware that the whole station can probably hear him, but he’s on fire, burning in the best way, and it’s too far away too matter. Garak’s hips rise up to meet him on every thrust, his hand moving in time along Julian’s cock, and it’s barely minutes before Julian is coming, the entire galaxy shrinking to a pinpoint of pleasure that explodes behind his eyes and radiates out across his skin.

He slumps forward, riding out Garak’s increasingly erratic thrusts, and leans his forehead against Garak’s. Garak slides his hands into Julian’s hair to hold him close, gasping a litany in Kardasi against Julian’s lips. His hips give one more jerky thrust upward, his thighs tensing, and then he follows Julian over the edge.

“Mmm,” Julian hums a moment later when they’ve both caught their breath, his eyes slipping closed. Things are sure to become sticky and unpleasant in short order, but the warm glow of post-coital endorphins washes any immediate concerns out to sea for now.

“As eloquent as always, I see, Doctor,” Garak says, a smile audible in his voice. Julian starts to pull away so he can deliver the scowl that comment deserves, but Garak holds him in place a moment longer, sweeping the pads of his thumbs tenderly across Julian’s cheekbones.

When Garak releases him and Julian can lean back far enough for Garak’s face to come back into focus, Garak’s expression is customarily inscrutable. Julian wishes, not for the first time and certainly far from the last, that he could just _ask_ Garak what he’s thinking. If the years of their friendship have taught him anything, though, it’s to never ask a direct question and expect a direct answer. Obfuscation is Garak’s stock in trade, and regardless of whatever may now have changed between them, the truth of Garak’s mind remains as elusive as ever.

Instead, Julian plays with Garak’s hair, letting the fine, smooth strands slip through his fingers. Julian’s own hair is probably a mess, sticking up all over and plastered to the back of his neck with sweat, but Garak has nary a flyaway.

Julian affects a deliberately casual tone. “What did that mean?” he says, keeping his eyes low. “What you were saying in Kardasi. My universal translator didn’t catch it.”

“Oh, nonsense mostly,” Garak says breezily. “You’ll recall I was somewhat distracted.” It’s a lie, of course -- as if it could be anything else -- but it’s enough of an answer that Julian tries to hold the shape of the sounds in his mind to look up later. If Garak is surprised that Julian doesn’t continue hammering away at the truth like he’s looking for the sculpture in a block of marble, he doesn’t show it. 

Julian leans his forehead against Garak’s again, relishing the cooler temperature against his overheated skin. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted this?” he asks softly.

Garak’s lips curl up into a smile. “You certainly took your time about it,” he says, his voice gently admonishing.

Julian pulls back so he can stare at Garak. His earlier irritation, which had faded to easily-ignored background noise and then all but disappeared, flares up again, hot and bright like Bajor’s sun. “ _Me_?” he accuses. “What about _you_?” He narrows his eyes. “You’re the one that never said anything! If I hadn’t shown up tonight, who knows how long it would have taken you to do something!”

Garak gives him a look that manages to be both disappointed and amused at the same time. “My dear Doctor, I’ve been ‘doing something’ since the day we met.”

Julian delivers a sharp tug to the lock of Garak’s hair that’s twisted around his fingers and resists the urge to shake him. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes,” Garak says, giving him a heavy-lidded look. “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> In case you were wondering, the forehead touch at the end was written with [this headcanon](http://brinnanza.tumblr.com/post/146652573051/early-morning-headcanon-corner-re-the-forehead) in mind. Also, friendly reminder that it's always okay to come bother me on Tumblr and also that I'm always taking prompts from [this tag](http://brinnanza.tumblr.com/tagged/writing-meme).


End file.
